At the end of the Fast

Goats, logjammed in the road, are led
on leashes, to the market, to be bought and slaughtered.
Is there a spicy pinch of suspicion in each bleat?
Or hate?

In English or Amharic, the animal's stuttering remarks
sound the same. Their hooves slip in the mud
like fingers in a dish of Fool and egg.

Donkeys lug stone.
Horses pull garries.
Ferengi flower dollars and birr.
But goats fill bellies; the smiles cut into their necks
spread like malaria to kids' faces.